A Shoulder To Lean On
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Oneshot. They all had their own reasons to be there. Everyone, after all, needs someone to lean on. Daryl/Carol


**AN: This was a Tumblr prompt for Caryl meeting in a support group.**

 **There's some discussion of abuse, but there's nothing extremely graphic. Still, if you need the mention for triggers, it's there.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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She'd already had at least three moments of "what am I doing here?" and she hadn't even made it to the room that she was assigned to go to. She knew what she was doing here, though, and she kept reminding herself of it every time she started to turn around and go back to her car. It was keeping her putting one foot in front of the other. It was keeping her walking toward the room, even when she felt almost overcome with enough fear to make her nauseous.

She was doing this for herself, but she was doing it for Sophia too. They said that you couldn't do this for anyone but yourself, and Carol believed that to be true, but she thought that it didn't hurt to have someone else, besides just yourself, that you were doing it for—especially when she hadn't cared that much for herself in years.

She supposed that many of the people that she'd meet tonight were the same way. Many of them probably didn't care too much for themselves. Many of them probably hadn't cared for themselves in some length of time. They'd been taught not to. But tonight? Tonight was the first step in the direction of caring again.

Carol stopped her steps a final time outside the door of the room in the community center and read the construction paper signs that were stuck to the brick wall there, ready to be changed out for someone else when they were done.

 _Abuse Survivor's Group. New Attendees Welcome!_

She sighed, gathered up her courage once more, and reminded herself that she wanted this—she wanted it for herself, and she wanted it for her daughter. She wanted her daughter to have the kind of mother that she deserved—a mother that could teach her to love herself, even if some monster had taught her that she wasn't worth something so extravagant.

Carol stepped in the door, eyes low, and immediately went for one of the empty plastic chairs in the circle.

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Daryl shifted in the hard plastic chair against the fact that his ass cheeks were going numb. He didn't know how long he'd been here, but he felt like he'd been here for hours and hours.

It felt like a last chance. It felt like a desperate attempt for—something. Peace? Solace? His own mind?

He'd only dated Joanne for four days. Cindy was two? Two and half. Catherine had been almost two days. And the saddest part of that was that those were the ones who had lasted the longest. They were the ones that would've won him, if such an award had existed, the award for his longest running relationships. There was something wrong when long term didn't see one week turn to the next.

There was something wrong with him.

And for once? Staying awake in bed one night with an arm tucked behind his head, trying to figure out why everything in his life undoubtedly seemed to go to shit, no matter his intentions? He'd realized that maybe what was wrong with him wasn't what he'd been taught was wrong with him. Maybe what was wrong with him wasn't what he'd believed to be wrong with him—all the things he'd believed to be wrong with him—since he'd been a scrawny ass kid with skinned knees.

Maybe what was wrong with him was, precisely, what he'd been taught and what he believed.

This was the place that he was supposed to get to the root of the problem. This was the place that he was supposed to be learning how to undo that thinking. It was where he was supposed to figure out what was really wrong with him. And, with any luck? It was supposed to be the place that he started turning that around.

But right now? Right now it seemed like a bunch of assholes simply sitting around, bellyaching about the shit in their lives, and expecting someone to pat them on the back and tell them how damn great they were and how much better their lives were going to be when they walked back out the government purchased door of the community center.

And Daryl was nervous—because they were getting closer to him in the circle.

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It didn't take long to get the hang of things. The woman leading the group was bubbly and friendly and encouraging, but her job was mostly to direct things. She kept them talking when they got quiet and she encouraged them to speak a little more about this or about that. But other than that? The whole thing was left up to everyone in the circle—everyone sitting with their problems on the little plastic chairs.

Each person had a chance to speak, and they were left to say whatever they wanted to say. There wasn't a script. There seemed to be no right or wrong way to speak. There were no wrong answers. They simply spoke about their lives, about their problems, and about what had brought them there. Everyone in the circle had the job of listening, looking concerned, and nodding with encouragement every now and again.

When the speaking was done? There were a few words of encouragement offered. Sometimes there was a pat on the back. There was one person who extended her arm to everyone who spoke, rising up from her plastic chair, and squeezed their hands. Another person offered prayer to each speaker when their time was done.

Carol found it easy to fall into the rhythm of the group. It wasn't difficult once she figured out how it went, though she wasn't certain what her role was and she didn't believe that she had anything to offer anyone that nobody else in the space wasn't already providing. All she could do was listen and wait—silently comparing others stories to her own.

The greatest comfort, perhaps, was being in the company of others who had suffered what she'd suffered, to some degree or another, because it helped her to realize that she wasn't alone. She wasn't the only person who was ever _stupid enough_ to tolerate what she'd tolerated and to stay for as long as she had. She wasn't the only person foolish enough to hold onto the belief that he'd still loved her, no matter what he'd done to her, and that things could get better. She wasn't the only person who blamed herself for what he'd done.

There were only two men in the room—either this wasn't a man's world or they simply didn't come to the group gatherings—and one of them sat two chairs down from Carol. Right where she had a good view of him. He sat there, his head hung most of the time, chewing at his cuticle in a nervous fashion that made Carol wonder whether or not anyone there had a first aid kit—of course, she assumed that the people in this group were more than accustomed to handling minor injuries. It wouldn't be fatal if he drew blood from his hand.

When it was finally his turn to speak, the man looked incredibly uncomfortable. He shifted enough in his chair that it almost seemed like he might flip it over. But finally he folded his hands in his lap, fidgeted with his fingers, and stared at the floor while he spoke.

Carol felt her heart throb along with the broken rhythm of his words—words he seemed to have a hard time saying, words that got stuck sometimes—even missing beats when he missed them. He'd been abused since he was a child, though he never used the word "abuse," and his father had been his first enemy.

He detailed out situations that made Carol close her eyes and jerk her body back in response to the phantom feeling of "blows" that he mentioned, but he told the stories as though they were just that, stories. He told them with the same kind of quiet contemplation of someone calling to mind details of a family dinner on Christmas. They were his stories, and it sounded like—for most of his life—they were the only stories that he had.

And her heart hurt worse, she thought, with his stories because she hoped that she'd gotten Sophia out of the house before those stories were her stories. Carol hoped she had done enough to keep Sophia safe that, one day, she wouldn't be sitting in a plastic chair like he was, recounting a childhood that sounded as horrible as his.

Carol had done what she could to always keep herself between Ed and Sophia, but she knew that she hadn't saved her entirely. She knew that Sophia had scars. She would always have them. Maybe there were even some that Carol didn't know about—if there weren't, Sophia wouldn't be so afraid.

Carol felt like she'd failed her daughter. But this was the first step toward doing what she could to make things right, even if she couldn't undo damage done.

And her heart hurt for him because he seemed, in contrast to so many there, so strong. He seemed, unlike those who had been crying about their stories before they'd even begun to tell them, to simply accept what had happened to him. He seemed like it didn't bother him at all—but there was a sadness in his eyes that told Carol that wasn't the case. The way he balled his hands up? Anger in his fingers that he worked out through nervous energy? He didn't accept it, but he wasn't accustomed to seeking sympathy either.

And that, in Carol's view, made him all the more needful of it.

So when he was done, and he glanced around the room nervously? She'd offered him the most sincere smile she had and a gentle nod of the head. She wasn't a grabber, and she didn't declare her prayer intentions. The smile and the nod was all she had.

But she thought he smiled gently back at her. She thought there was something there. He'd accepted her pitiful offer.

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Daryl knew he had no business looking at the pretty woman in the blue plastic chair like he was. What did he have to offer her anyway? He'd had nothing to offer any of the other women who were foolish enough to think they should take a chance on him. That's why he was here, after all. He had nothing to offer anyone, and no one really thought he was worth even a full week of their lives. This group, if it was magical or something, might fix that, but he doubted it was magical enough to fix it in the span of a few hours.

When he heard her story?

He thought it was different than the rest. She spent most of her time talking about what she wanted to become. She spent most of her time talking about who she believed she could be—who she believed she _was_ , even though she hadn't seen that person in some time. She spoke about the future—about the woman that she hoped would walk out of this magical room full of people, plastic chairs, and grocery store donuts and coffee.

And she talked about a daughter. She talked about her dreams for the girl. About a life that she wanted to build for her. About lessons that she wanted to teach her.

She spoke about her monster-husband, but only to set up her story. She talked about him like she was telling someone what the weather was like in the past of her life. He wasn't the whole story that she had to tell. He was just the starting point from where the hell she and her daughter went from here.

Even though she swiped a couple of large tears from her cheeks while she spoke? She smiled more than once while she was speaking.

And her smile? Daryl thought it was beautiful. It was the kind of smile that made him hate the barely mentioned monster-husband even more because he couldn't imagine anyone who was such an asshole they'd try to wipe it right off her face.

But he shouldn't have been looking at her like he did. He didn't have anything to offer anyone. He'd never had anything to offer anyone before.

But then, that woman—Carol—didn't seem to want to talk too much about the past. Maybe it just didn't matter that much.

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Carol ate one donut and wrapped another up in a few layers of napkins and tucked it in her purse. Sophia would like it. She loved donuts. It would be a nice little surprise, something she wasn't expecting, when Carol got back to the little apartment and relieved the babysitter for the evening. Right now? Just until they got on their feet? Treats like donuts weren't really something they could afford, and Sophia understood that. She was just happy that they were out of the way of Ed. She said she was just happy to crawl into bed with Carol at night and snuggle close to her.

Her sweet little Sophia, even if she didn't say it, was just happy to see the last marks from the beating that had sent her, finally, out of the house of horrors healing. She was happy to be safe. At least, even though it had taken her far too long, Carol could offer her that now. She was safe.

And she would be pleased with the donut.

At the end of the class, before she got ready to leave, Carol checked to find out when the next meeting was. One week, the same time and the same place. She got some numbers, from the leader of the group, of some teenagers who offered their assistance to people who attended the meetings. Free babysitting during the hours of the meetings and during times they needed to go for job interviews. Every little bit helped.

Carol accepted a few hugs from strangers, a hand squeeze from the woman who had an abundance of them, and all the prayer offers that she was given.

And then, just as she was going out the door, she stopped near Daryl who was leaning against a wall, eating donuts that he held in his hands, and looking around.

She smiled at him.

"Will you be here next week?" She asked.

He looked at her, swallowed the donut in his mouth, and shrugged.

"Will you?" He asked.

Carol smiled and nodded.

"I think it'll help," she said. "I hope it will."

He nodded.

"Yeah, me too," he said.

"I guess I'll—see you then," Carol said.

"Guess so," Daryl said. Then he jumped slightly, like he had just been struck with something, and Carol stopped herself from making the steps out the door that she had already begun to mentally plan. She raised her eyebrows at him in question. "Uh..." he stammered, obviously looking for something. To help him, Carol extended her hands and offered to take the donuts from him that he was holding. He passed them to her and then felt around in his pockets. She stood, holding the donuts, and waited while he walked a few steps away to the table. When he returned, he made a trade with her—his donuts for a small piece of paper.

Carol looked at the scrap. On it was his name and phone number. She smiled to herself. It was flattering—even if she wasn't there yet.

She looked at him and shook her head, starting to try to explain that she wasn't—she just wasn't—ready for anything like that, and he shook his head at her quickly.

"Been here a long time," he said. "Just—if you need something. I know my way around."

Carol looked back at the number, offered him a smile, and then sincerely thanked him for the gesture. She slipped the number into her purse, even if she meant to throw it away later, and she left the room.

But by the time she made it to the car? She wasn't so sure she would throw the number out.

After all, everyone needed a little support in their lives—someone to talk to, a shoulder to lean on—inside the community center and out.


End file.
